


The Last Song of the Bull and Terrier

by Aansero



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blackmail, Gen, Torture, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aansero/pseuds/Aansero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To tell the truth – the truth about torture, that is –</p>
<p>The truth is, it’s not the pain that breaks a man. It’s the fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Song of the Bull and Terrier

**Author's Note:**

> Written with gloria_scott on AO3 as my beta, many thanks!
> 
> Any concrit will be welcome; thank you for reading!

To tell the truth – the truth about torture, that is –

The truth is, it’s not the pain that breaks a man. It’s the fear.

It started off painful enough. I do not remember how I came to arrive in captivity – in a cellar, of about twelve by twelve feet, dirt floor and a sturdy ladder that can be lifted up out of reach of the cellar occupier. I believe there were drugs involved, and fists, and boots, but the pertinent details are all missing. I do remember that on my arrival I was beaten again, though I gave almost as good as I got – in the beginning, at least. Then, humiliatingly, I was stripped of all clothes save my drawers. At least I am grateful that it was humiliating only; there are many who would not even conceive of the things I know to happen – uncivilised things, brutish, animal things. At the time, however, I remember only a blinding gladness when I realised that this was not their intent.

The leader of the five-strong gang, Rhys, was a tall, wiry man, skin marked with old disease pocks but with a fine-boned handsomeness at odds with his crude and sadistic character. The first time he spoke to me he was offering a cup of dirty-looking water, and threw it in my face when I hesitated. At that point already I was parched, but he gave no second chances, laughing dim-wittedly as he left and closed the trap door above me. It was pitch black then. I do not think I slept, though I may have dozed a while. At that point I was as sure that Sherlock Holmes would rescue me as I was that the sun would rise in the morning.

Some time later – how long exactly, I could not guess – Rhys appeared at the trapdoor and told me to stand facing away, with my hands on the wall. I did not, yet so full of arrogance. My words were haughty, though I do not recall them exactly. I got another cup of water thrown at me for my arrogance, only this time it was scalding. It burnt me across the chest and waist, and served only to anger me, in the way as a fighting dog is furious to be put in a ring against the opponent that will kill it. Like a fighting dog, I was stupid as well as angry. I wasn’t about to help my captors, however, whoever they might be, not then and not after the whole gang of thugs had climbed down and dealt me rather a lot of pain – for I was not yet afraid.

Their demands of me are inconsequential now, of course, but I include them for the sake of completeness. It is not, after all, case notes I am writing – but I digress. They wanted me to pen a letter to Holmes, begging him to find or fabricate the evidence that would release a certain few individuals from gaol. This was in exchange for my life and sanity, they said. I distinctly remember Rhys’ face when he told me that this personal touch would be necessary to sway Holmes’ opinions on the matter. I refused. At this point, of course I did. How could I not?

Stories are written of heroes, and British courage, and men staying true to Queen and country until the very end. I have been to war, and I know the truth. It is ugly, and there are men who would sneer and speak of cravens, and believe themselves wholeheartedly to be of sterner stuff. I am not one of those men. Why then the fearlessness that carried me through the beginning? Perhaps it was because of Sherlock Holmes. If I could not trust myself, then why not trust Holmes?

As I said – as stupid as a fighting dog.

Whatever the reason, I am glad that I held out as long as I did. That, at least, is something to be proud of. Of course, it is then also that the real torture began.

They broke my shins and tied me by my arms so I could not lie or sit. They beat me with metal bars, paying particular interest to the masses of scar tissue across my shoulder and thigh. They burnt me with cigarette butts. As I urinated and defecated, as all men must eventually, I was forced to do so in my own drawers, and left as such. They gave me no food, no water, and no sleep.

I said I would write the letter. I was glad to be given a proper pen, because I promptly stabbed it into the closest man’s lower arm. I suppose I was aiming for an artery, but I don’t have much clarity, looking back on the moment. At any rate I missed, for his blood-loss was minimal. I do remember that. I also remember that for a single, aching moment, I knew that I could write the letter.

For my impudence my arms were held at shoulder level behind my back, bound at the wrists to the ladder. Despite my legs being in the state they were in, I could only stand on tiptoe to escape the deeper pain of my shoulder. At this point, even to exist was a vile torment – so when Rhys dug his fingers into my wounded shoulder and pushed down hard – I will not lie – I screamed and I screamed. I could not see for pain. It was a hundred times worse than the actual shooting, when bullet ripped open muscle and shattered bone. There was nothing else in the world but the agony of my poor, pitiable body. And yet, when Rhys let me up and I'd dry-vomited, gasped in enough air to feel that perhaps I was, after all, alive – when he placed his hand back on my shoulder but did not yet press down: that is the fear that breaks you.

I did not know how long I had been in that cellar. A day, or days? I cannot say. I hadn't been afraid to begin with. But after that indefinable amount of time of animal pain and the realisation that there is more yet to come – oh, I was afraid. I did not want to be hurt again. Only half-coherent, I was so terrified that I wished I were dead, rather than face that pain a second time – or a third, or fourth, or fifth – because who can say when will it end? I could not. It's a shameful thing to admit, even on paper and to oneself only. But it is also the truth.

And yet, I was still myself, still John Watson, whose dearest friend in all the world is Sherlock Holmes. This is why, when Rhys said: 'How about now?', I waded through the fear to say: 'Fuck you.'

It was more a gasp than words. It was far from my most elegant moment – as was the moment after, when Rhys’ fingers buried themselves back into the scar tissue on my shoulder, forcing me down and the angle of my shoulder far beyond its limits. I screamed. I begged him to stop, when I had the breath to do so. I writhed as far as my bonds would allow it. And when I was let up again, I cried great, terrified, unmanly tears. I did not want him to hurt me again, but I knew I could not agree to his demands. I could not agree.

Except that I could.

Am I trying to justify my actions? To whom? Perhaps it is myself. It is certainly not to those who sit in their comfortable homes and those who scoff, thinking bravery and morals should be enough –

I am running out of ink, I realise, so will have to make these last parts brief.

What is there to say of fear – of terror – that takes hold of a man and cripples him, body and mind? How many more times did Rhys hurt me in such a fashion? I cannot say… It seemed certain to me then that Sherlock Holmes was not coming. He would not save me, and I – I could not save myself. Except in one way.

It was after I had been left for some time to dwell, I suppose, on the utter misery of my upcoming existence – to say nothing of the agony that plagued me constantly – that I broke. Rhys was standing in front of me, one hand resting on my shoulder, just waiting. I was a wreck at this point, truly and utterly, and it would be laughable to pretend otherwise: panting, sweating, cringing and barely able to stay upright and conscious. Fear and anticipation drove like nails into my skull, my eyes.

They still hurt – my eyes, that is. I can’t tell if they have received physical injury, or if it is only my mind playing tricks on me. I suppose I will never know. If I had a mirror, perhaps…

I am avoiding the actual topic at hand. To say it bluntly: I told Rhys to wait. I moaned and whined like a broken dog, like dogs that have been beaten in the pits and are to be given as a prize to the victor. Rhys pressed down lightly on my shoulder. I said I would write the letter. They untied me, sat me down with pen and paper, and I wrote.

Is that not simple? I cannot recall what words I scrawled, pen trembling, ink splattering. It could hardly be recognised as my own hand, but no doubt Holmes will find a way to tell. To describe it now, it is such a small, simple thing.

They climbed out, leaving me on the floor with the little gas lamp, remaining sheets of paper, pen and ink. I had half a mind to drink it, such was my thirst, but I overcame that, it seems. It hurts one’s back to write whilst sitting on the floor. My head pounds abominably. My eyes are blurry.

I am not so far gone as to know there is a good chance Holmes will reject their bargain. I cannot tell whether I wish him to or not. I think I used to know, but do not know. If he does, will they make me write another letter, even more wretched than the last? Would he refuse the fifth letter? The tenth? Could they force me to write another nine so as to give him that choice? I cannot tell. Here when it is silent and I am alone in this empty grave…

Ah – footsteps above me. My fear returns, and I know instantly – yes. The pen is already in my hand. I will write.


End file.
